


where the salvage bleeds

by violetdivinity



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Face Slapping, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M, Verbal Humiliation, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetdivinity/pseuds/violetdivinity
Summary: During their sessions, Ed likes to use many tools on Oswald.But what Ed likes best is when he uses hishands.





	where the salvage bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by Cory's comments at Wonder Con, where he placed significance on Ed using his hands on Oswald. Cory has mentioned this in other interviews as well, and thus this fic was born.
> 
> Title taken from "Andrew Eldritch Is Moving Back To Leeds" by The Mountain Goats.

During their sessions, Ed likes to use many tools on Oswald.

Ed has accumulated no shortage of items and devices to use on his victims when he's in Riddler mode, terrorizing the insipid denizens of Gotham. He finds that he has a much more willing victim in the form of Oswald, whose eyes shine with raw, open desire every time Ed pulls out an instrument and says _let's try something new_.

The pleasure, of course, is mutual.  There's a thrill in tickling the sharp edge of a knife across Os' ribcage, a hint of controlled violence that makes Oswald quake.  It's the same kind of anticipatory shiver Oswald gives when Ed trails the end of a thin cane along Oswald's jawline, a gentle caress before the cane is snapped across Oswald's backside, a reedy sound only second to Oswald's cries. Other times, he binds Oswald's body in bright red rope, mimicking the lines of blood he carves into that pale skin on other days, and fucks Oswald hard, leaving him immobilized and forced to take it.

Each tool, each toy rouses a feral glee in Ed, the kind he truly only knows when he has Oswald at his consented mercy.

But what Ed likes best is when he uses his hands.

Barring praise, there's no faster way to get Oswald in a pliant headspace than this: stroking over his cheeks and neck, gliding down his shoulders and arms, caressing his nape and behind his ears. Oswald all but melts, turning to putty with each deliberate sweep of Ed's hands. He's reminded of being a child in art class, forming clay into an image of his own design. Oswald is his to mold, his to shape, his to own and build up and break down over and over again.

Oswald's fiery-sharp eyes glaze over, submerging in a foggy haze of pleasure and surrender, allowing Ed to do anything he pleases. He traces Oswald's kiss-swollen lips with two gloved fingers, and the moment Oswald obediently parts his lips, Ed plunges his fingers inside. He explores Oswald's mouth ( _Ed's_ mouth, because in this moment, everything of Oswald belongs to Ed), snagging on his teeth, sliding along the warm, wet tongue that greets him, thanks him. When Ed withdraws his fingers, he slaps Oswald's right cheek without warning, wet leather on skin, and Oswald moans deep in his throat like he's never received anything so exquisite.

"Slut," Ed hisses, stroking his hand over the red blooming on Oswald's cheek. Oswald all but mindlessly nuzzles into Ed's palm, panting hot breaths against the leather in agreement, too far gone to be ashamed.

Oswald is so easy to manhandle when he's like this, entranced by a spell weaved by Ed’s hands alone. Ed can move him into any position he desires with very little fight, body more limp ragdoll than human. On his stomach, on his back, limbs spread wide wide  _wide,_ arms over his head or hands pulled tight against him behind: Oswald goes with it, allows Ed to make him into a more pleasing image of submission with little more than breathy moans. The same effect could be achieved with bondage, of course, but Ed likes to feel Oswald's pliable body in his hands, likes to feel the rabbit-quick pace of his pulse when he shoves Oswald's face into a pillow by the back of his neck. It's a heady rush of power that goes right to Ed's head and groin, nearly making him shudder from the intense, rolling waves of hunger born from a need to control, a need to own.

The power with using his hands, Ed realizes after a session that leaves Oswald sore and gasping from how tightly Ed pinned his hands, is in the intimacy of it.

When he uses a cane or whip, there's a degree of separation between him and Oswald, an intermediary between the pain-pleasure Ed gives and the receiving pale flesh of Oswald's bare skin.  It’s lovely to watch Oswald lean into the kiss of knife against his chest or to arch into Ed’s favorite cane, body begging so beautifully for it, but there’s also an impersonal air to doling out each hit.  If Oswald closed his eyes, he could pretend that anyone was beating his body black and blue and bloody.

But when Ed has his hands on him?  There’s no mistaking just  _who_ is in control.

It’s a factor Ed becomes reliant on as their sessions continue, testing more limits and uncovering new desires.  Even when Oswald’s brain is at its most clouded, when he can barely recognize anything beyond the world they have created, Ed needs Oswald to remember that all of this is possible because of _Ed._ Only Ed is in the room with him.  Only Ed can make Oswald soar to such incredible heights and electrify his body with a kind of stimuli Oswald has never known before.  Only Ed can do this to Oswald, and he will remind Oswald of this with every punch-press-brush of his fingers until Ed’s name is nothing more than a broken hymn on Oswald’s lips.

Fixating on the thought kindles a wildfire in Ed, determined to swallow everything in its untameable path.  Suddenly the very same actions and results achieved through the use of tools heighten tenfold when Ed has Oswald like this: shoved bodily onto the bed, Ed’s hands over every inch of him.  He works himself into a barely controlled frenzy, teeth bared as he drags his blunt nails down Oswald’s chest, leaving a trail of angry red lines so very like the ones he creates with his knife; less blood, but more a personal touch that fulfills a baser need in Ed.   _Mine_ , every touch of his hands proclaim, be it pinching Oswald’s nipples until he can’t muffle his cries to gripping his hips tight enough to bruise and make Oswald slackjawed.  He wants Oswald to see, to _remember_ that he may be a King of Gotham when he steps out of the door, but here, naked on Ed’s bed and covered in marks and bruises by Ed’s hands, he is nothing more than Ed’s little subservient boy, begging for more of Ed’s scathing touch.

The intimacy is not lost on Oswald, either.  Sometimes Ed leaves his gloves on, enjoying the sounds of leather caressing and slapping exposed skin, as if Oswald isn’t even worthy enough to be touched by Ed’s bare hands.  More often than not, after taking Ed’s gloved, sadistic fondling and punishments for as long as he can stand, Oswald begins to squirm, wet eyes blinking up at Ed in a telltale plea.

“Ed,” Oswald exhales, voice already wrecked and ruined just from being slapped around a little (Oswald is so _easy_ for it). “Take off your gloves.  Please.”

Ed looks down his nose at Oswald, kneeling before him on the bed, cheeks stained a bright rose and his body shaking from the force of the hits.  His lips curl as he taps Oswald’s blushed cheek with his fingers, making wet, little sticky sounds, enjoying the way Oswald winces before leaning in, desperate for Ed’s touch, no matter how depraved it is.  

“No.”

Another _slap_ across Oswald’s cheek that makes his head whip to the side, the pained groan ringing in Ed’s ears.

“ _Please._ ”

A lovely beg that makes Ed’s hard cock strain in his pants, but ah, Oswald can beg him better than _that._ Roughly grabbing Oswald by the chin, he forces Oswald to look up at him and meet his eyes.  Oswald’s trembling, a tear caught on his eyelashes that Ed doesn’t bother to remove; Oswald is even prettier when _cries_.  His grip tightens, and Oswald gasps on a choked breath.

“If you think you deserve it, beg me for it properly,” Ed all but snarls, no mercy or kindness given in the face of Oswald’s desperate plea.

The remaining dignity Oswald desperately clings to prevents him from starting right away, but when Ed releases Oswald’s chin to claw down his face and dig into the forming bruise on his cheek, Oswald loses himself to it: _please Ed, I want to feel your skin, please, fuck, I’ve been so good for you -_

And Oswald really has, which is why Ed gives it to him like this:

Oswald kneeling, one of Ed’s hands clasped around the pale column of Oswald’s throat, the other slowly working Oswald’s cock in measured strokes.  He varies the tightness between both hands, choking Oswald good and hard while keeping his other hand loose, forcing Oswald to fuck his fist and chase his pleasure while struggling to breathe.  It’s pathetic and embarrassing and _beautiful_ , and Ed tells Oswald as much, _look at you, Oswald.  If only you could see what a mess I’ve made of you. What would your employees think if they saw you like this, so desperate for my hands in any way I choose to give them to you?_ Oswald moans and tips his head back even farther, baring himself to Ed, who is only too keen to take more and more, his uninhibited, conqueror soul aflame.

Before he allows Oswald to orgasm, he makes him look him in the eye, needing Oswald to remember who is giving him pleasure and pain so divine.

“Who do you belong to?”

“ _Ah,_ Ed, _you_ , always you -”

Ed sneers down at Oswald when he tells him to _come, now_ , his hold on his throat never relinquishing as Oswald’s cries all but echo off the walls, his hot release spilling all over Ed’s hand.

Afterwards, the same hands that bruised and punished Oswald’s skin now soothes it, slow and steady strokes down his sides and back as Oswald comes back down to reality.  They tend to engage in little conversation after these sessions, both of their needs fulfilled, but Ed lingers at least until Oswald’s breathing has calmed and there’s a renewed focus to Oswald’s eyes.

“That was good,” Oswald says at last, a slight smile to his lips, still too high on endorphins to stop himself from flashing such a fond expression.

“Yes, Ed agrees.  His eyes rove down Oswald’s face and body, cataloguing each bruise, each red welt blooming on Oswald’s skin, a testament to Ed’s presence and ownership. “It was.”


End file.
